Roger Carr joined him, sitting on the other side of the table.
Blake looked at Kelly and she nodded almost imperceptibly. They both stepped forward, the writer seating himself directly opposite where Mathias would be.
‘Thank you, David,’ said the psychic.
As if prompted by Kelly’s action, Dr Vernon pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She eyed him suspiciously for a moment then looked at Blake who had his eyes closed slightly.
“Sir George”?’ Mathias said, looking at the head of the BBC.
‘No, I want no part of this,’ said the bald man, defiantly.
Gerald Braddock, who had been rubbing his hands together nervously finally moved towards the table.
‘What are you doing, Gerald?’ Sir George asked him.
it can’t do any harm,’ Braddock said, wiping his palms on his trousers. He looked at the others seated around the table and swallowed hard.
No one else in the room moved. Mathias walked to his seat between Toni Landers and Roger Carr. Opposite him was Blake. To his right, Kelly. At the writer’s left hand sat Braddock then O’Neil.
‘Could we have the lights turned off please?’ Mathias asked. ‘All but the one over the table.’
Sir George surveyed the group seated before him for a moment then with a sigh he nodded to the club’s doorman who flicked off the lights one by one until the table was illuminated by a solitary lamp. Shadows were thick all around it, the other guests swallowed up by them.
‘Could you all place your hands, palms down, on the table,’ Mathias asked. ‘So that your fingertips are touching the hands of the person on either side of you.’
‘I thought we were supposed to hold hands,’ muttered Carr, sarcastically.
‘Just do as I ask, please,’ Mathias said.
Kelly looked up. In the half light, the psychic’s face looked milk-white, his eyes standing out in stark contrast. She felt a strange tingle flow through her, a feeling not unlike a small electric shock. She glanced at Blake, who was looking at the psychic, then at Vernon, who had his head lowered.
‘Empty your minds,’ said Mathias. ‘Think of nothing. Hear nothing but my voice. Be aware of nothing but the touch of the people beside you.’ His voice had fallen to a low whisper.
The room was silent, only the low, guttural breathing of the psychic audible in the stillness.
Kelly shivered involuntarily and turned her head slightly looking at the others seated with her. All of them had their heads bowed as if in prayer. She too dropped her gaze, noticing as she did that Blake’s fingers were shaking slightly. But then so were her own. Indeed, everyone around the table seemed to be undergoing minute, reflexive muscular contractions which jerked their bodies almost imperceptibly every few seconds.
Mathias grunted something inaudible then coughed. His eyes closed and his head began to tilt backward. His chest was heaving as if he were finding it difficult to breathe.
‘Don’t break the circle,’ he muttered, throatily. ‘Don’t … break …’
He clenched his teeth together, as if in pain and a long, wheezing sound escaped him. It was as if someone had punctured a set of bellows. His body began to shake more violently, perspiration beading on his forehead, glistening in
the dull light. His eyes suddenly shot open, bulging wide in ihe sockets, his head still tilted backward.
He groaned again, more loudly this time.
The light above the table flickered, went out then glowed with unnatural brilliance once more.
“The child,’ croaked Mathias. ‘The … child …’
His groans became shouts.
Kelly tried to raise her head but it was as if there was a heavy weight secured to her chin. Only by monumental effort did she manage to raise it an
inch or so.
Somewhere behind her one of the swords fell from the wall with a loud clatter but none of those seated at the table could move to find the source of the noise. They were all held as if by some invisible hand, aware only of the increasing warmth in the room. A warmth which seemed to be radiating from the very centre of the table itself.
“The child,’ Mathias gasped once more.
This time Kelly recoiled as a vile stench assaulted her nostrils. A sickly sweet odour which reminded her of bad meat. She coughed, her stomach churning.
The feeling of heat was growing stronger until it seemed that the table must be ablaze. But, at last, she found that she could raise her head.
If she had been able to. she would have screamed.
Toni Landers beat her to it.
Standing in the centre of the table was the image of her son.
His clothes, what remained of them, were blackened and scorched, hanging in places like burned tassles. Beneath trfc fabric his skin was red raw. mottled green in places. The left arm had been completely stripped of flesh and what musculature remained was wasted and scorched. Bone shone with dazzling whiteness through the charred mess. The chest and lower body was a mass of suppurating sores which were weeping sticky clear pus like so many diseased eyes. But it was the head and neck which bore the most horrific injury. The boy’s head was twisted at an impossible angle, a portion of spinal column visible through the pulped mess at the base of the skull. The head itself seemed to have been cracked open like an egg shell and a lump of jellied brain matter bulged obscenely from one of the rents. The bottom lip had been torn off, taking most of the [eft cheek with it, to expose ligaments and tendons which still twitched spasmodically. Blood had soaked the boy’s upper body, its coppery odour mingling with the overpowering slink of burned skin and hair.
Toni Landers tried to raise her hands to shield her eyes from this abomination which had once been her son but it was as if someone had nailed her fingers to the table. She could only sit helplessly and watch as the apparition turned full circle in the middle of the table, meeting the horrified gaze of all those present before bringing its milky orbs to bear on her. One of the eyes had been punctured by a piece of broken skull and it nestled uselessly in the bloodied socket like a burst balloon.
The apparition took a step towards her.
It was smiling.
Kelly looked across at Mathias and saw that there was perspiration pouring down his face as he gazed at the sight before him. She then turned slightly and looked at Blake. He was not looking at the child but at the psychic, the writer’s own body trembling convulsively.
The figure of the boy moved closer to Toni Landers, one charred hand rising before it as it reached the edge of the table.
Finally, by a monumental effort of will, Toni managed to lift her hands from the table.
As she covered her face she let out a scream which threatened to shake the building.
‘Look,’ urged Jim O’Neil.
Like the image on a TV set, the apparition of Rick Landers began to fade. Not slowly but with almost breathtaking suddenness until the table was empty once more. Above them, the light dimmed again.
‘My God,’ burbled Gerald Braddock. ‘What was that?”
Even if anyone heard him, no one seemed capable of furnishing him with an answer.
Sir George Howe strode to the pane! of switches behind the bar and snapped on the lights himself.
Mathias sat unmoved at the table, his eyes locked with those of Blake. The writer was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run up a flight of long steps.
The two men regarded one
another a moment longer then Mathias turned to Toni Landers who was sobbing uncontrollably beside him.
‘Fuck me,’ was all Jim O’Neil could say. His voice a low whisper.
Dr Vernon stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking at the spot on the table top where the apparition had first materialized. It still shone as if newly polished. He inhaled. There was no smell of burned flesh any longer, no cloying odour of blood. Only the acrid smell of perspiration.
Beside him, Kelly touched Blake’s hand, seeing that the writer looked a little pale.
